


wait for me, my baby

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jon and Sansa are King and Queen in the North, Mentions of past abuse, PTSD, Smut, its another arranged marriage au!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-01-26 10:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21372547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Tortured by her past, Sansa flinches when her new husband comes near. Jon doesn’t mind… he can wait until she’s ready. And if she’s never ready… well, that’s fine too.OR5 times the King and Queen in the North attempt to consummate their marriage – including the one time they succeed.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 104
Kudos: 898





	1. Chapter 1

**I.**

They try for the first time on their wedding night.

Jon waits for her in the godswood, his hands clasped behind his back, his furs pulled impeccably around his shoulders. A silver direwolf pin brands his chest and it burns, blood of the dragon stirring. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of it. The crown, Winterfell, a beautiful ladywife – _it was all for Robb._

He never asked for the cup to be passed to him. He never asked to be King in the North, for Sansa to be forced into yet another marriage she doesn’t want. He promised he’d protect her - that he’d keep her safe _always_ \- and yet here he is, binding her to him, a prison of his aunt’s making.

A chill that has nothing to do with the cold passes over his skin, making him shudder. The cup _has_ passed and he must drink from it all the same.

She’s beautiful as she walks towards him, ethereal and serene and everything he thought he’d never have. After-all, he was a bastard then – and it does bastards no good to dream of pretty girls who’ll never be theirs.

Not that he dreamt of Sansa, of course.

Not that he’d noticed as she grew, changing from a girl with a girl’s body to a woman with soft curves and warm edges. She’d always been pretty. Even when she was hardly a sister to him, just a prim and indifferent little lady who barely looked at him to appease her mother, he had noticed. He was still a _boy_ after-all, and she was still a girl who smelled like flowers and whose cheeks blushed prettily, like a drop of strawberry in the cream he was never allowed to eat.

She stops to stand in-front of him, a girl no longer.

He swallows and gently takes her hands, a boy no longer.

He’s a King and a wolf - no matter who his father may be - and above all, a man. He would have to be blind not to notice the woman she’s become, and it unnerves him… how this doesn’t feel as wrong as it should.

Their voices ring out, floating between the trees where a Stark has always stood.

_“I am hers.”_

_“I am his.”_

_"_ _And she is mine.”_

_“And he is mine.”_

He looks at her hair and thinks of Ygritte then.

_You could be free too._ _Build yourself a cabin and find a woman to lie with in the night. _

She’s not what he thought he’d find – but he’s found her all the same.

It’s easier than it ought to be, this transition from sister to cousin to wife.

After-all, he’s never loved her the way a brother should. She’s never loved him at all.

The love he has for her isn’t like the love he had for Ygritte – but it’s not like the love he has for Arya either. The feeling, stuck deep in his chest, is resigned to some world in-between, and he can’t quite get to it. He can’t understand it.

He doesn’t think she can either, but as she sits beside him at the feast, it’s not like he can tell. Her face is as unreadable as ever, a puzzle he’s never been able to master. She sits straight in her chair, hands clasped delicately in her lap, lips pulling up when duty demands she smile.

She looks as delicate as a porcelain doll, but Jon knows better than anyone how very unbreakable she is.

“Are you alright?” he feels the need to keep asking her, leaning in slightly. She smells like lavender and smoke and pine from the godswood, and his hands curl around his cup of Arbor Gold a little tighter.

She doesn’t look at him, icy eyes focused on the lords and ladies happily dancing in the hall.

“You do not need to keep asking me that, your Grace,” she says, her mouth tight, “if ever I am not well, I shall let you know.”

Her response irks him somewhat and he just wants her to look at him, for her to know he’s as lost as she is.

“Jon,” he corrects her.

Finally, she turns to look at him, her eyebrow arching delicately.

“You are my wife,” he murmurs; it’s a truth they best get used to, “not my subject.”

She stares blankly for a moment, before her head turns and she’s back to not looking at him. He sits back in his chair and tries to fill the hole in his chest with wine. He wonders if this is how Ned Stark felt when he married Catelyn - not his sister or cousin, but a woman he never expected to have.

He’s sure Ned would have been better at this than he is. He would have held Catelyn’s hand under the table, and if that didn’t work, he would have reassured her with his words, all low and Northern gruff, and he would have made her _happy. _

But then, Jon thinks, it doesn’t matter what Ned and Catelyn would have done. They would never do those things again. They would never smile or laugh or play or sit in these very seats in the Great Hall. They’re just a memory now, their bones turned to dust in Winterfell’s crypt and in a cold river down south. They couldn’t even bring her and Robb home, he muses, and his chest feels too tight again.

Drunk cheers and jaunts bring him back to reality. After a beat, he sorts through the noises to work out what the lords are asking for. Sansa tenses beside him, her eyes flickering and her jaw locking tight.

“No,” he stands, his voice strong and authoritative the way a King’s should be, “there will be no bedding ceremony.”

The Lords murmur in disapproval, the ladies’ giggles as they ready to drag him to the bedchamber dying in their throats, but it’s worth it to see Sansa relax beside him. He won’t put her through that. Not even the imp did, so he’s told, and he intends to be a better husband than him at least.

Her second husband doesn’t bear thinking about, though his ghost remains, a dark shadow looming over them.

“My word is final,” he says when Lord Manderly heartily protests again, “no bedding”

He sits back down, sharp eyes watching as the band strikes up and the feast begins again.

Sansa doesn’t tense up this time and for that, he’s grateful.

There may be no ceremony, but it will be a difficult night all the same - and it’s only just beginning.

Jon waits outside the Lords’ chambers, lifting his hand to knock only to drop it again in painful indecision.

He tells himself to get a grip. He’s a warrior and a King. He’s faced down wildlings and monsters like Ramsay Bolton and the literal walking dead.

Yet here he is, anxious and afraid of his new wife, a woman he’s known all his life.

Before he can torture himself any more, the door opens of its own accord, a handmaiden waiting on the other side.

“The Queen is ready for you, your Grace,” she says, a gentle smile curling her lips as she opens the door wider, gesturing for him to come inside. Jon gives a curt nod before following her.

Sansa stands in the middle of the room, illuminated by the flickering fire beside her. With her back to him, he can see she wears only a modest shift and her hair is pinned up, exposing her long, milky white neck. His throat suddenly feels very dry as his eyes sweep over her, his hands clasped behind his back.

Slowly, she turns.

Her expression is softer than before, serene and beautiful and half bathed in candlelight. He watches the movement of her throat as she swallows, her hands twitching at her sides.

_Lovely, _he thinks. She looks lovely and he wants to tell her as much, but he can’t find the words.

“That will be all, thank you,” she dismisses the two handmaidens beside her, the ones still fussing with her hair and shift. They dip into a bow, and Jon doesn’t miss how their cheeks blush into pink when they do the same as they rush past him. Giggles follow them down the hall and he fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“I will never understand women,” he tries, his mouth twitching under his beard.

Sansa smiles back, soft and gentle.

“You make them nervous,” she says, taking a step forward.

He sighs and his brows pull into a frown, his middle finger coming to scratch in-between them.

“That is not my intention.”

“Of course not,” she replies easily, taking another step until she’s standing in-front of him and Jon can feel her heat, “but who can blame them? You are a King - and you look very handsome tonight, Jon.”

He knows this. Girls have been looking at him with desire in their eyes since he came out of his awkward, gangling phase and grew into his strong muscles and beard. He’s been told he’s pretty more times than he can count, but the compliment has never fallen from her lips, and he’s not sure what to do with it.

He just takes her hands in his and hopes the gesture conveys everything he can’t bring himself to say.

It kills him, the way she flinches.

“Forgive me,” he mutters – and he’s not just talking about the sudden gesture.

She lifts her gaze to his, her only response a slight shake of her head and a sad smile. Tentative and unbearably slow, she brings her hand to his face, cupping his cheek.

“We take what we can get,” she whispers, thumb gently swiping over his cheekbones, “and we do our bests with it.”

He nods, mouth pursed into a thin line, and his grey eyes flit over her face, trying to read her expression.

She’s fragile but composed, her hooded eyes flickering slightly from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

“I need to discuss something with you,” she clears her throat, apparently back to business, and drops her arms back to her sides. 

Jon’s mouth twitches, but it’s not quite a smile, and there’s an ache where her hands once were.

“Of course.”

He watches the movement of her throat as she swallows, her hands coming to clasp in-front of her. He can see her wringing them nervously, the way she did as he placed his cloak around her shoulders and under his protection. 

He wants to comfort her; he doesn’t know how.

“I do not think it necessary to go into great detail regarding what Ramsay did to me,” she starts, her voice low and hoarse, “he did what he wanted… and he was a man of voracious, evil appetites. I think that’s enough said on the matter.”

Jon feels his jaw lock, his hands itching to fight. He’s glad he gave Ramsay to her – it was her fight after-all - but he wishes he could drag him kicking and screaming back from hell. He wishes for a death even more painful, to rip him apart with his own hands, rather than the teeth of a hound.

“Aye, you don’t have to tell me anything,” he urges, “I would never push.”

Sansa nods but her lips still purse into a tight line.

“You’re my husband,” she says, the words still hanging fragile and strange in the air between them, “I have to tell you some things. I have to tell you…. I know we have a duty to the North. The fate of the entire Seven Kingdoms rests on us providing Daenerys with an heir. And yet, I can’t — it _hurts_, Jon.”

Her voice wavers on the last words, her eyes flashing to the floor.

Jon gently lifts her chin with his index finger.

“Sansa, I will never hurt you,” he says fiercely, because it’s the truth and he needs her to know he’s different.

“I know that, I do, but…” she glances around the room uneasily, “I still feel what we he did to me here. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. For every good memory, there are so many bad ones. He told me he was part of me now, that I could never kill him. I only now realise how right he was. He’s always, _always _in my mind. He haunts me. He’s ruined me. You’re brave and kind and someone I’ve known my whole life, but I feel him when you touch me.”

He feels her words in his chest, stinging like a stab from a sword. His throat feels thick with sadness and he wants to reach out to her but how can he, when his touch is what’s hurting her?

“We’ll go slow,” he promises her, “I will not touch you tonight, or any night, until you are ready. We’ll make Winterfell a home again, we’ll build it stone by stone, until you feel safe.”

Truthfully, the plan works as well for him, for while he’s no greenboy, the thought of removing that shift, of putting his hands and mouth on her, his cock inside her… it fills him with emotions he can’t even begin to decipher.

He needs time too.

But Sansa blinks, her face hardening somewhat, and she looks like she did that time in the tent before the battle for Winterfell. Hesitant and distrusting and like she doesn’t believe him. It hurts as much as it did that night.

“What if I never feel safe?” she asks, “what if I never want you to touch me?”

His shoulders feel tense, his jaw aching from where he clenches it so hard. He tries to relax, but he supposes he never thought that far ahead.

“That’s fine too,” he insists and tries a smile, “I was a man of the Night’s Watch, after-all.”

He means for it to be light hearted, to assure her that he’s a simple man, a quiet man, who doesn’t need any of _that,_ especially not if it’s going to hurt her. To his surprise, her expression only hardens.

“You’re not any more, though,” she corrects him evenly, “you’re a Targaryen King and I your Queen. Daenerys only allowed the North to be free on the condition that we provide her heirs. They will stay with me, to be raised here, but our duty is clear nonetheless. Your words are admirable, Jon, but we must do what we must. I must learn.”

_I’m not, _his insides scream and shout at the accusation of _Targaryen King. _

All he’s ever wanted is to be a wolf, a _Stark_, one of them.

_But if you were a Stark, _the voice inside whispers again, _you wouldn’t be expected to lie with her and give her your seed. _

_If you were a Stark, it would disgust you. _

“Not if it will you bring you pain,” he insists once more, jaw tight, “we will find another way.”

She shakes her head, touching her hands to his face again, the pads of her fingers tracing down the scar below his eye to gently rest over his lips.

They slowly part under her touch, her fingers dragging the bottom one slightly. His eyes hood, dropping to her own mouth, the air thinning between them.

“Jon…” she says his name again - a soft, breathy whisper that sounds like home, “there is no other way.”

Before he can answer, her hand is moving down to grasp his thin nightshirt. The other one joins it to clutch the material at his chest.

“Will you kiss me?” she asks evenly, her gaze flickering to his, “you said we’ll start slow. Well, I think I should like to be kissed. He never — ”

Jon stops her with a hand on her waist, gently tracing the curve of her hip. His other hand comes to cup her cheek.

“Don’t talk about him,” he murmurs; it's not an order, but a plea, “don’t even _think _his name. It’s only us, Sansa. You're safe. Aye, I would kiss you.”

Her lips twitch and he registers her take a breath, her eyelids softly fluttering shut. 

Taking a breath of his own, he slowly places his hand over her chest, his thumb resting in the hollow of her throat while his fingers splay across her collarbone. He approaches her the way he would an easily startled animal, wary of moving too fast, too close. Her heart pounds wildly under his palm, and he feels an answering ache in his chest.

For the first time – he waits.

He waits for her to calm down, waits for that tell-tale patter to slow to an even beat. Wordlessly, he urges her to breathe, his hands strong and warm on her chest and hip. After a minute or so, her eyes are still shut, but not so tight, and her heart beats a little slower under his palm.

Slowly, he snakes his fingers from her chest to around her neck, his thumb coming to rest on her cheek as his hand cups her face. Her lips part as she sighs, subtly leaning into him. His other hand comes to join, cradling her face.  
  
Her jaw is clenched so tight he worries her teeth must ache and he imagines his own expression dark and sullen and _still_, she won’t open her eyes. 

He pushes past the doubt, the whispers of _sister _and _cousin _and the ghosts of who they used to be, and gently presses his lips to hers.

It’s just a brush of mouths at first, a charged connection that makes her pull back in fright. She inhales sharply and his hands loosen on her face, ready to let her go, but her own fingers come up to close around his wrists. She holds him there, her grip tight metal cuffs, and _she _presses up into _him. _

He tries not to let his surprise show, readily accepting her kiss. He yields beneath her, letting her take control. Their lips just connect at first, both breathing through their noses, as her fingers, warm from the fire, tighten around his wrists. Then, she begins to move her mouth.

Her mouth is soft and pliant as she pushes harder, surprising him again by running her tongue along the seam of his lips. He opens for her, allowing her to slip her tongue inside, gently massaging his. He swallows her little gasp, his mouth slanting over hers. She tastes like wine from the feast and something else he can’t put his finger on; all he knows is he wants more, and this isn’t as strange as it ought to be.

He waits for her to pull away, patient beneath her curious mouth, and when she does, she finally opens her eyes. Her pupils have dilated to leave only a thin circle of darkened blue, and to his relief, she doesn’t look scared at all. She releases his hands to clutch at his shirt again, bowing her head slightly.

“Thank you,” she murmurs breathlessly, “that wasn’t bad at all.”

His mouth twitches as he glances down at her. He feels tight everywhere. His jaw, his shoulders, his chest – but most importantly, his breeches. It’s been years since he got hard from a kiss, been years since he was kissed by a woman at all, and certainly not a woman like her.

_No, _he thinks with equal parts relief and despair, _not bad at all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this has been done to death, but we all love an arranged marriage au don't we! don't we?! Sansa is so strong, but I always thought intimacy would be difficult for her after everything that happened - hopefully I can put an original, sensitive spin on this and you'll like it :)


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

They try for the second time when the ghosts of the past linger heavy between them. 

Jon’s angry.

Sansa _knows_ he’s angry.

Sitting opposite him, watching the flames from the fireplace cast hollowly shadows in all the right places, she notices a muscle in his jaw jump. He’s frowning – _he’s always frowning_ – but it’s deeper than usual, his expression sullen and brooding.

She knows what it’s about, too. In the years since they’ve been reunited, Sansa’s come to know Jon very well. She knows his favourite ale and the name of his sword and that he loves Arya best. She knows he misses Robb, though he’d never talk about it, that Ghost is the most important thing in the world to him and that he lost a part of himself when he died and never got it back.

Mostly, she knows that he’s _good._

He’s a good man, the very best of them, and this is why he can’t understand Petyr Baelish and the things he does.

"I don’t care what he says,” Sansa murmurs eventually, “you know that, don’t you?”

“I could have his head,” Jon says back, dark grey eyes flickering to her, “you know _that, _don’t you?”

It’s said with a pointed arch of his brow, for he’s well-aware that he’s not the typical sort of King. He doesn’t care for fancy flourishes or extravagant displays of brutality and power. He sits with his people, breaks fast with his people, _bleeds _with his people. He doesn’t rejoice in killing, though he’s good at it, and he says it like she ought to know.

_He will, _if it comes to it.

_He will, _if Petyr Baelish keeps whispering foul half-truths in her ear.

_“I’m sure our King is far happier with your union than he lets on,” _he had told her earlier that evening as he cornered her in the Great Hall, a snake-like grin curling his lips, _“I’ve heard nothing stirs his blood quite like a redhead.”_

Sansa already knows about his wildling girl.

_Kissed by fire, _Tormund had said, _just like you._

Jon had loved her. He’d loved her, and he’d lost her, and Sansa aches to know what that's like. To be tied to someone who doesn't hurt you, who doesn't cut into your skin with icy words as well as violent hands. To want someone, to _truly _want someone. To love them so much, you have no control.

Jon hadn’t been able to kill her, the wildling man said. She wishes she’d had the chance to meet her; this woman who made the honourable Jon Snow forget his vows, the woman he nearly gave it all up for. She can’t help but feel in her shadow, sickeningly jealous of this ghost that had had all of him, the parts of him she doesn’t get to see, and she suspects Lord Baelish _knows that. _

Clearly, Jon suspects it too, because his eyes had darkened when she’d told him and his jaw had clenched tight.

He’s standing now and she’s mirroring him, drawn to him in a way that’s unsettlingly new.

“You didn’t desire me before,” she says evenly, and there’s an unspoken question in there somewhere.

She’s not sure she’s ready for the answer, but he gives it quickly anyway.

“I couldn’t desire you before.”

She blinks at that. “But now you do?”

She watches that jaw tick again and knows Jon won’t – _can’t – _lie to her.

“I don’t know how I feel.”

His voice is honest, quiet and controlled, but she can sense the unease behind it. She feels an answering twinge in her chest, a dryness in her throat. It’s all so _new. _A few moons ago, they were brother and sister, a fraught distance between them, but a distance nonetheless.

Now, it’s like the veil between them has been ripped away, leaving them lost and hurting and achingly exposed.

She doesn’t know how to cope with these feelings. She doesn’t know how to reconcile her belief that men are evil, that they’re full of base desires and malicious intent and they _hurt _you, with the fact that Jon’s the best person she knows.

“I don’t either,” she admits, “I just know I don’t want you to want me because I look like her.”

He blanches at that, a brief look of genuine surprise sweeping across his features. 

“You don’t look like her,” he bites out. He looks like he’s in pain, and he won’t say her name, “you’re _you_.”

“What does that mean?” she asks, almost coldly, like being _her_ has never been enough.

He pauses for a moment, struggling.

“I loved her, there’s no point pretending any different,” he says, all matter of fact, and she tries not to dwell on how the words feel like a punch to the gut, “but she’s my past. Littlefinger’s trying to plant ideas in your head, playing on your insecurities, but he doesn’t know me. In-fact, there’s not a person alive who knows me better than you do. You’re brave and strong and so important to me. She’s gone, Sansa. I’ll always hold a place for her… but _you’re_ my future.”

He doesn’t elaborate on the nature of that future – whether he’ll love her the way a brother loves his sister, or a cousin loves his cousin, or a husband loves his wife. It’s still so fragile between them, so very new, but she swears there’s a darkness, a desire, in his eyes that wasn’t there before. 

“I don’t want to talk about her anymore,” she says after a beat, rushing in headfirst because she doesn’t want to think, “I don’t want to talk about Littlefinger. I want you to show me. Show me what it’s like to be wanted, even if you don’t mean it.”

He looks almost sad for a moment, and he takes a step towards her.

“I mean it, Sansa,” he murmurs, because even if he doesn’t want her in _that way_ – though at least part of him does, judging by the way his eyes are almost black as they flicker between her gaze and her mouth – he wants so many things for her. He wants her to be safe and warm and happy. 

She nods, but she can feel that rock in the pit of her stomach, the panic rising already.

He reads her expression effortlessly and his voice is gentle when he asks, “what do you need?”

Images she never lets herself think about sear behind her eyelids. She briefly screws her eyes shut and tries to will them away.

“Can I see you?” she asks, but she doesn’t open her eyes, “I have so many scars - ”

She pauses, almost ashamed, but he’s removing his furs before she can even finish her sentence, a slave to her requests. Eyes still closed, she listens to the gentle ruffle of fabric and unlacing of ties as he slowly undresses.

She knows he’s finished when silence falls over them again and she takes one, two, three breaths before slowly opening her eyes.

He’s as scarred as she is – maybe more so.

He’s left his breeches on, but his chest is strong and solid, all raised skin long healed. She takes a step forward and tries to stop her fingers from shaking as they reach out to touch him.

There’s a flash of white teeth as he hisses at the first contact.

She draws back slightly, startled eyes flying to his.

“Cold,” he explains softly as his lips twitch, a rush of air escaping them.

She nods and relaxes, briefly rubbing her hands together before her right one reaches out to trace a silver scar that spans much of his collarbone. 

“One of my first days as a recruit in the Night’s Watch,” he murmurs, “a slash from a sword in the training yard. I wore no armour and I wasn’t as good then.”

She pauses for a moment and then nods, suddenly understanding what he’s doing.

She moves to the other side of his chest then, hands trailing over his history, a map of his bravery. She lands on a circular blemish on his left shoulder blade. This one looks more like a burn and she looks to him under heavy eyelashes for explanation.

“The wildings play with fire,” he huffs, “my fault for washing in a cave where the children were running about. One crashed into me, holding a burning stick. One of my only scars that wasn’t intentional.”

He says it with a quirk of his lips, almost smiling, but Sansa doesn’t find it so funny. So many people have tried to hurt him, tried to break him in some way.

For the first time, she doesn’t feel so alone.

Her fingers trail over a smattering of red half-crescents then, and his face is back to stone, any trace of amusement gone. When she reaches the largest one, curved and angry and directly above his heart, she pauses.

The atmosphere hangs heavy and significant between them.

“My men,” he murmurs eventually. The scar is long healed, but he’s still in pain. "When they… well, you know.”

She nods. She knows. She won’t make him dwell on it.

Her left hand comes to join her right, both now trailing down the sides of his ribs. There are a few marks here and there, some small blemishes and cuts; she doesn’t see the need to linger on each one. She just goes to a patch of raised skin spanning from his right side to his belly button.

The strong muscles of his stomach twitch and contract under her touch. It does something strange to her own, and she holds her breath.

“Robb,” he bites out, almost choking on the word.

He can’t elaborate, can’t say anything else.

He doesn’t need to. She remembers this one. Remembers rolling her eyes at Jeyne’s swooning as they stood on the balcony and watched her brothers spar in the courtyard. Remembers father telling them they weren’t ready for steel yet, that they needed to stick to wood. But Robb was as brash as Jon was stubborn, and it led to Jon being carried to the Maester with streaks of blood and Robb trailing behind him, frantically babbling his guilt-ridden apologies.

Remembering Robb hurts. It hurts them both more than they can bear, so she stops, her palms resting flat on Jon’s strong stomach.

He gently grasps her wrists, feeling her pulse.

“I’m okay,” she reassures him, “thank you.”

She’s not ready to share her own scars, but it helps to know she’s not alone. He’s been hurt too, but he’s alive and he’s _here, _and it makes her want to get better. She doesn’t want to be broken anymore, so afraid of changing because she’s built her life around being a victim.

_Ramsay, _she forces herself to think his name.

_Ramsay._

_Ramsay —_

_Jon._

“Will you kiss me again?”

He doesn’t look surprised at her request. He just blinks, his chest rising and falling as he takes a breath, and then his nose is pressing against hers.

Again, he waits.

She kisses him.

Her mouth slides over his, warmed by his sacrifices, his willingness to stand vulnerable and exposed for her. Her tongue swipes across the seam of his lips and he opens for her, blossoming under her touch, and she keens against him when they connect.

He’s there – _he’s always there_ – to catch her, his hands anchoring themselves on her hips. As their mouths move against each other, his hands travel to the top and the small of her back, his fingers splaying. It drags her closer to him and her own hands find purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into the skin. She thinks about carving her own scars, a wild sense of possession washing over her, a need to mark him as hers.

Maybe it’s that or maybe it’s the revelation that she _can _bear to think Ramsay’s name, that it won’t bring him kicking and screaming back to life, but she’s soon walking Jon backwards until his knees hit the edge of the chair by the fireplace and he falls back into it.

He stares up at her, patient and waiting, and she takes a breath before lifting her skirts at the thighs and settling into his lap.

She watches him fight back his reaction, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“It’s okay,” she whispers again, “I’m okay.”

She watches the movement of his throat as he swallows, giving a small nod.

She kisses him again, her hands cradling his face this time. He’s all hard edges and rough stubble and some wetness – _when had she started crying? – _and she pulls him closer still. Her hands rub at his jaw, like she has to keep moving, keep busy, and his own rest on her hips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles.

Eventually, he breaks away and she finds herself chasing his lips. She receives a husky chuckle in response, the sound flaring heat between her legs, and then his mouth is on her neck. She tips her head back, a breathy gasp escaping her, as his mouth plants hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin. She moves with him, tipping her head forward when he urges her to, rubbing hot against each other and nipping like wolves.

He drags his mouth up her neck, making her eyelids flutter, before he gently tugs her earlobe between his teeth.

“Sansa,” he breathes her name, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She screws her eyes shut in response, an ache in her chest. _He _never said her name like that. If he uttered it at all, it would be mocking and sinister and dark, hurled at her like a weapon. Her pretty, highborn name reduced to ashes on his vile tongue.

_He’s not here, _she reminds herself. _He’ll never be here. He’ll never be anywhere._

“Stay with me,” Jon whispers, his strong hands bringing her face to his, touching his forehead to hers. She nods, a sob welling in her throat at the intensity of it, and she fights to anchor herself to him. Her hands go to his chest, warm from the fire and something inside that’s wholly _Jon. _

Her fingers curl into his skin. He’s real and alive and _here. _

She captures his mouth again, tongue licking inside. He matches her stroke for stroke, yielding under her, and when she rolls her hips slightly, she feels _it. _

She shifts, spreading her legs wider, and feels his hard cock press against her. She freezes, her breath caught in her throat, and his eyes are so dark they’re practically black. He closes them and looks like he’s going to say something, probably going to jump up and apologise, but she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want the moment to break, fragile as it is. She’s still okay, so she kisses him again and rolls against the hardness pressing against her aching core.

He drops his face to her neck, biting out a groan into her hair. She almost doesn’t hear him, quiet as he’s trying to be, but she _does _– and the sound shoots straight between her legs. She lets out a moan of her own, chasing the confusing feeling, acting on instinct.

His hands are pliant on her hips as he lets her move on top of him, lets her remain in control, but she feels his fingers twitch. She pushes down harder, rolling her hips in circles, grinding against the hardness in his breeches.

Something disordered and unbearably hot burns in the pit of her stomach, like a coil ready to snap. The intensity of it scares her and a gasp catches in her throat as she surges up and stares at him. His eyes are as dark as hers must be, pupils blown to black, and he stares right back.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, knowing she must never have felt this before, “I’m here. You can let it happen.”

His voice is gentle, controlled and soothing as he talks her through it, and it’s not an order.

The ache between her legs becomes almost unbearable, and even though layers of clothing, she can feel a confusing slickness between her thighs. She keeps grinding against him, listening to his own little pants and grunts, until heat scorches her skin and suddenly, she can’t breathe.

A fist grips her heart, white hot panic shooting through her.

Now she feels everything, all at once.

_No. _

_It's_ _ too much._

Just before she can fall off the edge of the cliff, soaring into _whatever this is, _dread washes over her like a bucket of ice water.

She scrambles off him, panting. She can’t think; she can’t even _breathe. _

She closes her eyes and tries to calm down, but nothing helps – _nothing – _until she feels the heat of him in-front of her, feels his palm cover her racing heart.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his normally gruff Northern brogue velvet smooth. His hand just rests there, just the touch of him, as her chest rises and falls rapidly under his palm.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes eventually and still, his hand doesn’t move, not until the flutter of her heartbeat has calmed.

He shakes his head, his brows pulling into a frown.

“Don’t apologise. I told you, we’ll go slow. If that’s what you want.”

“It is!” she says and she doesn’t realise she’s crying again until his thumbs wipe the tears away from her flushed cheeks. 

He rests his forehead against hers.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he tells her, “you did so well. You’re strong, Sansa. Stronger than you think.”

She breathes a little easier now, her eyes searching for him.

“Really?”

“Aye, really,” his lips twitch into a gentle smile, “my wolf. My wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really hope you liked this one! Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the first chapter! As I said, it's 5 chapters so the smut will increase as Sansa's confidence does. Just FYI, I won't be delving into the specifics of what Ramsay did to Sansa. I don't think it's necessary. I do feel there was untapped potential in the show to explore her trauma and the ramifications of it. Hopefully I will be able to touch upon that a bit in this fic. It was really hard to balance Jon/Sansa experiencing these new feelings with confronting her trauma, so I hope it came off okay!


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

They try for the third time when talk turns to heirs.

“Daenerys can _wait_,” he insists - _rages_ – bites out through gritted teeth, “she’s preoccupied with her new throne. She’s building a new world. A world I helped her win. The least she can do is give us time.”

Sansa stares at him from where she sits on the other side of his desk, deep in thought, her hands tented against her mouth.

“She won’t wait forever,” she murmurs, “our position is fraught at best. She only allowed the North to be free on the condition that we provide her heirs. Yes, many of the Seven Kingdoms lay in smoke and ash now, but they won’t forever, and then enemies will come out of the woodwork. She will want her position to be secured when that time comes. Word spreads, Jon, and we have enemies of our own. If they find out we’re not even trying…”

Her face twitches, close to a wince, and Jon’s brows draw together at her discomfort.

“We _are_ trying, Sansa,” he murmurs, “you are trying.”

He hates that look on her face, all clenched jaw and furrowed brows. He knows how it feels to think yourself weak, unloved and unwanted. He never wants that for her. He might not love her quite the way a husband loves his wife - _not yet_ \- but he does have love for her. He wants her to be happy, to be safe. It's what he's always wanted.

He had cared for her even when she'd hated him, back when he was a little boy with a bastard's name and she was a little girl who just wanted to please her mother.

But that was lifetimes ago now, too many to matter, and a new life stretches out before them.

“It’s been months. If we – ” she stops for a moment, briefly closing her eyes before injecting some confidence into her voice, “_when_ we lie together, it may take months after that for your seed to take. This is time we do not have.”

Her words incite his own grimace, his jaw clenching in discomfort. He doesn’t want to dwell on it – he’s always been good at avoiding things, always too reticent, too reserved - but it hurts to hear her talk about them in such a detached fashion.

Her tone is clipped, almost clinical, and he wants to see that fire again.

“You’re not a broodmare,” he grumbles. He’s not a stud, existing only to put babes in her belly, babes to continue a blood line he cares nothing for.

Sansa's lips twitch, touched but unmoved all the same.

"It would be for me too," she admits softly, "I don't want to be this way forever, stuck in the past, unable to move on. I've always wanted to be a mother."

Jon nods because he _knows_ this. He's known it all her life, a fact written in stone. Robb would be Lord of Winterfell one day. Bran would be a knight of the Kingsguard or raise castles like Brandon the Builder. Arya would refuse any traditional path altogether and Sansa would be a wonderful mother.

They've lost people along the way, and some of those dreams haven't come true, but Jon's determined this won't be one of them.

He’ll make her a mother, watch as she grows and glows with his babe. The thought stirs a curious warmth in the pit of his stomach, and he shakes his head before he can dwell on what that means.

“And you?” she speaks again before he can, her voice quiet and guarded, “you never expected to be a father. Is it what you want?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Truth be told, he’s never given it much thought. As soon as those vows had left his lips, breathed into the cold under the heavy branches of the Weirwood tree, it was a fate resigned for another life. He'd thought about it only once, buried between the legs of another redhead. But what good did it do to dwell on what could never be? He would never hold lands. He would never take a wife. He would never cradle his own newborn son in his arms. He had grown used to the fact.

_And yet_… here he is, an entire kingdom in his hands. He has a pretty wife, an equal to rule by his side. All that’s left is a babe with inky curls and Tully blue eyes – or would they have her hair? His eyes? What once seemed impossible now sears behind his vision and _yes, _he wants it.

He wants it so badly, he’s practically shaking with it.

“Aye,” he admits, almost breathless with the force of the realisation, “I want it.”

Something flashes behind Sansa’s eyes, part surprise, part relief.

“With me?” she checks. She doesn’t sound vulnerable, more curious, and he doesn’t blame her. They were siblings for so long, after-all.

_Aye, with you,_ he thinks, because that’s the only future he can see.

She’s all he can see.

“I will father no children but yours,” he makes an amendment to that vow, spoken a lifetime ago.

Sansa nods, exhaling on a shaky breath, before she casts her eyes to her lap.

“You’ll father none at all if I can’t find some pleasure in it.”

She glances up at him and _there it is, _that look again. All sullen and self-deprecating; it’s like looking in a mirror.

He stands and begins to make his way around the desk, casually running a finger along the surface of the wood. When he reaches her, he stands by her side, making her tilt her head and crane her neck to look up at him.

Slowly, as though she’s a frightened animal about to bolt, he extends his hand and runs the backs of two fingers down her pale cheek.

“There are a great many things a man can do to make it more pleasurable,” he tells her, pleased at the way her skin blossoms under his touch, turning a pretty shade of pink.

His thumb comes to rest on her bottom lip, softly stroking. She’s silent for a moment, eyelids fluttering, before she speaks.

“Show me,” she tries to demand, but it comes out shakier than he thinks she intended, “please, Jon. I want to know. I want to try.”

He nods, a heat that has nothing to do with the leather adorning his body flaring under his skin.

“You’ll tell me if you need to stop?”

He watches the movement of her throat as she swallows, giving a small nod. His mouth twitches under his beard, and then he’s gently taking her arm and pulling her up. Once she’s there, flush against his body, he manoeuvres them so her back is against his desk and he’s surrounding her.

His hand covers her heart, feeling the beat under his palm, a ritual that’s come to begin this dance. 

He needs to check she’s alright, has to read it through her body, because she can be so very stubborn, so unyielding. He worries she won’t tell him when she needs time, when she needs space.

“Kiss me,” she murmurs, and her heart is as steady as her tone - so he does.

His mouth slots over hers, soft and pliant. As always, he lets her set the pace. As her tongue tentatively strokes over his, lust pools in the pit of his belly, sparking into an ache that vibrates through his whole body. At the back of his mind, he’s stunned at how good this feels, how it doesn’t feel wrong or unnatural at all. In-fact, with the world so upside down, it’s the only thing that feels right.

As they kiss, his hand on her throat instinctively tightens, pulling her closer to him. Although she doesn’t react, her heartbeat remaining steady under his palm, he loosens his grip, not wanting to incite bad memories.

“Show me,” she mutters against his mouth when they break away, biting his bottom lip in a way that has him holding back a groan, “show me, _show me._”

He nods, his throat on fire, before his hands go to her waist and he lifts her.

“Sit on the desk,” it’s a command, husky and low, but his voice is soft, “and spread your legs.”

She swallows, her darkened gaze flickering from his eyes to his mouth as she settles on the desk and spreads her thighs as he asked.

Jon bites his lip, his strong hands travelling to her thighs. Glancing at her as though to check for permission, he starts to lift her skirts until they pool at her waist and it’s just her smallclothes concealing her cunt from his gaze.

“Alright?” he murmurs, his hands resting on her thighs. He softly rubs them as he waits for her answer.

She seems to consider it for a moment and he notices how she trembles under his touch. After a torturous beat, she quickly nods.

“I trust you,” she says – whispers - and _really_, that’s all he’s ever wanted.

He lowers himself to the floor, a _king, _on his knees for her. He won’t _be_ a king; he’ll be a slave. He’ll be vulnerable, cut open and laid out before her - he’ll be _anything - _just as long as she keeps looking at him like that.

Before he can dwell on these feelings that rattle him, he sends her one more look – _one more check_ – before he strips her of her small clothes and puts his mouth to her cunt.

Her hips buck at the first swipe of his tongue, a strangled gasp escaping her. He’s certain no-one’s done this to her before, spent so many years wondering if it was something that was done _at all_. He’d just felt the compulsion that day in the cave with Ygritte, and it had been one of his favourite parts of coupling since.

She deserves it, he thinks, as his tongue slides back and forth. He’s never wanted to make a woman peak more, never been so desperate to wring out their pleasure. His hands spread her thighs wider, fingers digging into the skin, but he’s sure to loosen his grip when it becomes too tight. He doesn’t want to leave any marks, though the thought of marking her as _his_ flares something hot inside him. He doesn’t want to leave bruises, her king’s hands burning into that milky skin the way _his _did.

She once told him he was nothing like Joffrey.

He’s nothing like _him_ either.

When his teeth graze her sensitive clit, she bucks into his mouth, a sob of pleasure falling from her lips. Her hands fly to his hair as his tongue plays her like an instrument he mastered years ago. She tugs at the leather band that ties it back, running her fingers through his thick curls.

At the scratch of her fingers against his scalp, he lets out a groan that’s more like a grunt into her flesh. There’s a throbbing in his breeches, his cock straining hard against the fabric, and he presses the heel of his hand to his crotch to adjust himself and try to relieve the ache. She’s hot and sweet and wetter than he imagined and when he breaks away, his face is slick with it. She pants at the sight, too far gone to care, and then his mouth is back on her.

She’s beautiful like this, he thinks quietly. Wild and unrestrained and free. She trembles under his touch, under his mouth, her thighs becoming tense, her toes curling. She’s close. One more lick, one more suck.

“It’s okay,” he turns his head and hums – pants - into the flushed skin of her inner thigh, his beard scratching, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

_I’ll always have you._

This time, unlike that night before, she lets it happen. She trusts him. He keeps his fingers away from her, unsure if she’s ready for any sort of penetration, and laves her with his tongue instead. One more swipe and she’s _there_, falling off the edge, shattering in his arms.

It’s enough for tonight, a chipping at those seemingly impenetrable walls.

His happiness at the glowing expression that flashes over her features is surpassed only by the gentle kiss she gives him three minutes later – a soft and emotional _thank you._


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

They try for the fourth time after Sansa sends a whore to his chambers.

She debates it for days, sitting at her desk or on her bed or in the courtyard, anxiously chewing on her already bitten thumb. Bathed in the aftermath of her first ever orgasm, a warmth that seems to last for days, Sansa bolts.

She’s tired of being scared.

Scared of Joffrey, scared of Ramsay, and now scared of Jon.

She knows he’d be heartbroken if he knew this, that she’s _terrified_ of him. It wouldn’t matter that it’s a completely different sort of fear, a fear of the way he makes her feel, because it’s _fear_ all the same. He only ever wants her to be happy.

She’s not looking at him like a brother any more, a cold and appropriate distance between them. Siblings don’t make each other come, make each other fall apart under clever tongues and calloused hands. Not Stark siblings, at least.

So, she makes a decision.

Full of self-loathing and self-deprecation, she convinces herself it’s _his_ Targaryen blood that matters. _He’s _the one who needs to sire Daenerys’ heir, not her. The woman doesn’t matter. _She _doesn’t matter.

_I am a broodmare, _she thinks, remembering his passionate words, _and I can’t even do that right. _

Sickness and despair swirl in the pit of her stomach, fighting for precedence, and she blinks back the tears.

She chooses a whore she knows will be discreet, one with red hair whose babe might pass for hers. She would love it; she knows she would. Because it’s a babe and still of the North and part of _him._

“He’ll be gentle,” she mumbles a promise as she shoves the money in the whore’s hands, her brow quirking in surprise when the girl shakes her head and gives it back.

“He’s the _king_,” she drawls easily, quirking a brow of her own, “and hardly difficult on the eyes. It’s an honour, your Grace.”

Sansa stares at her for a beat, unsure how she feels about that. She just swallows past the lump in her throat and gives a curt nod.

She turns and watches her go, taking the pieces of her shattered heart with her.

Standing before her floor-length mirror, Sansa stares impassively at her reflection as her handmaiden finishes preparing her for bed.

She’s so still, not thinking about anything at all, she’s sure the knock on her door would have made her jump even if it was soft.

It’s not soft. It’s a hard, imposing, almost _angry_ sound, and there are at least four bangs before the young girl behind her rushes to open the door. 

Jon stands on the other side, steel grey eyes flashing dark and feverish.

“Leave us,” he bites out, his voice a frosty command that sends a shiver down Sansa’s spine. She’s rarely heard him use that voice before, and never outside of battle.

The poor girl cowers slightly, dropping into a hasty bow before rushing out the room without so much as a second glance.

Jon’s jaw is clenched and she watches a muscle near his ear jump as his eyes remain fixed on her. Once the girl is gone, brushed past him a muttered “_your Grace,”_, he paces forward and slams the door behind him. Sansa forces herself not to react, not to jump.

When it’s clear he’s not going to speak, that jaw still locked tight and fury flashing through his eyes, Sansa breaks the silence.

“That was rather rude,” she says, turning back to the mirror and pulling her loose hair over one shoulder. She plays with it because she needs something to do, and her fingers pull anxiously through the strands.

Jon doesn’t move and she can see him in the reflection behind her, angry behind her left shoulder, and she can’t look at him.

“I cannot believe — ” he starts, his voice quieter but low and incensed all the same, “ — that after an _entire life_ together, you do not know one thing about me.”

Her eyes sweep to the floor and her chest tightens and _still - _she can’t look at him.

Because if she looks at him, if she lifts her eyes, she’ll see him strong and beautiful and too _whole_, too _perfect _to be hers. She’ll see hands that have been touching another woman, hear his Northern brogue whispering her name, smell her perfume still sticking – lingering - to his body, something painful.

She can’t look at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He takes a step forward and she doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s _there_. She feels the heat of him surround her, a charged presence at her back.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of his hand in the mirror, sees it flex and twitch and curl into a fist at his side. It looks – _feels - _like he might reach for her, but he pulls himself back.

“The girl you sent.”

She feels her brows pull into a frown, a tightness in her chest. She doesn’t want to talk about… _that, _had hoped he’d be discreet. She thinks about his hands again, thinks about them on another woman, and the room suddenly feels too small. She wants to run, _needs_ to run, but then those hands are on her waist, gripping her from behind.

“Please don’t,” she whispers, her head bowing, pain ripping through her like a tidal wave.

“I didn’t touch her.”

The words are like a soothing balm to the pain and she allows herself to lift her eyes then. She catches his reflection in the mirror behind her and the ache in her chest intensifies at the look on his face.

He looks so _sad, _despondent and betrayed and a little heartbroken.

“Sansa. Can’t you _feel_ this?” he breathes out, his fingers tightening their grip on her waist, and he sounds helpless and in pain and _exasperated_.

She can’t help but lean back into him slightly – because she _can, _she _does._

“I didn’t send her because I don’t feel anything,” she whispers, her eyes and throat burning, and she can feel the burn of his beard against her cheek, “quite the opposite.”

“I don’t understand.”

She screws her eyes shut, and her hands shake as her palm slides over the back of his around her waist, loosely gripping his wrist. 

“I can’t give you what you want, what you need,” she murmurs and saying it out loud _hurts, _almost takes her breath away, “I’m scared.”

“Aye, I am too,” he answers easily, quickly, and their eyes connect again in the mirror, “Sansa, I’m just as lost as you are. And you _do_ give me what I want, what I need… just by being you.”

“You can’t be scared,” she doesn’t believe him, doesn’t believe it’s possible, “you’re Jon Snow.”

“And you’re Sansa Stark,” he says like that _means _something, “I couldn’t have survived the things you’ve survived. He’s gone, Sansa, and you’re here. Stop punishing yourself. _Live. _You have me. I’ll never hurt you.”

“You will,” she chokes out, and feels his hurt, the way he bristles behind her, “what I felt the other night… how you _make_ me feel…. in the end, it all hurts just the same. If you didn’t like the girl I sent, I’ll find another more to your taste. I think it’ll be easier that way.”

“Aye, it’d be easier,” he concedes, his voice husky and low, a mutter into her hair, “but it’s not meant to be easy, my love. It’s going to be hard, and we’ll have to work at it every day, but I want to do that because I don’t want her — or anyone else. I only want you.”

His words, especially _my love, _spark a heat inside her. She feels tears prick at her eyes and she leans back into him further, her throat burning as he places a soft kiss to her cheek. His buries his face in her hair, breath soft and even, and she wants to relinquish control — but how can she, when she’s already spent so many years without it? When she’s only just got it back?

_But Jon’s different_, she reminds herself. Needs to _keep _reminding herself. With him, letting go might be painful, might leave her vulnerable and exposed again — but it might also be a chance at love, _real love, _a chance for nights of passion and mornings of kisses and unseasonably warm winters and everything that’s _right _and _good _in the world.

“I’m _broken_.”

A kiss into her hair. “You’re not broken.”

Maybe that’s all she needs to hear, or maybe it’s just _everything _— past, present and future — searing behind her eyes, but she turns in his arms and kisses him.

This night, there’s no time to check her heartbeat. No time to hesitate or make sure she’s okay – _she’s so sick of not being okay. _

She just kisses him, hard and deep and rough, and pours everything, all the hurt, all the pain, into him.

He yields under her with a little grunt of surprise, his hands bunching the material of her thin shift at her waist. 

He tastes like wine and smoke from the fire and something else she can’t put her finger on. Her tongue licks along his bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open and she deepens the kiss, completely in control. His hands – _those hands – _come up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking across her flushed cheeks as his mouth slants over hers.

She breathes through her nose as she walks him backwards, her own hands working to quickly untie the laces of his jerkin. Once his knees hit the back of the bed, she pushes him down onto the furs, beckoning for him to lay back so she can climb over him. She straddles his thighs, feels him hard underneath her, and everything slows to a halt.

Perched atop him, her hands anchoring themselves on her chest, she stares down at him.

_Mine, _the word flies through her mind before she can stop it. _My husband. My dragon. My wolf. _

She leans down, suddenly frantic again, and captures his mouth with hers.

“Say my name,” it’s a desperate beg, brushed against his lips and her hair falls like a scarlet veil around them, protecting them from the world.

His hands come up to cup her face and his expression is so soft, it’s almost reverent.

“Sansa,” he whispers like a prayer against her mouth, “Sansa, _Sansa.”_

She chokes on a sob, kissing him — wildly, fiercely. She grinds her hips down, revelling in the little groan that escapes him, and his hands anchor themselves on her waist again.

A strange desperation bubbles inside her, hot and almost hysterical, and she moves her lips away from his mouth. She drags her mouth down his neck — kissing, sucking, biting — and he lets out little pants and grunts that shoot heat between her thighs. She feels them becoming increasingly slick and she grinds her hips faster to try and relieve the ache.

“Sansa — ” she catches his voice through her desperate haze, but her name doesn’t sound like before, “Sansa, darling… stop.”

His tone is still soft, a husky whisper, so different from when she used to beg the same thing.

Still, she does stop; she knows how it feels to have that request ignored.

“I want this,” she grinds her hips down to make her point, catching a glimpse of white as he hisses through his teeth, “I want you to fuck me.”

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs calmly, “not like this.”

Not while there are tears streaking down her cheeks and she’s angry and jealous and lost. She stares down at him for a moment, still perched on his thighs, before she gives a resigned sigh.

She climbs off him and lays next to him, curls into him, her thigh draping over his.

“I want to try,” she insists after a beat, her now steady hand trailing absentminded circles on his chest, “tomorrow night. I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to really try.”

She feels readier now, now she knows how he feels, how _he_ wants to try — try to be a husband, in all the ways that matter. How he doesn’t want anyone else, how she’s strong and beautiful and _enough. _

Tomorrow, she’ll try. She’ll surrender, bathed in his warmth and support.

Tonight, it’s enough to just have him hold her. 


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

Jon realises he’s in love with her, the night they try for the fifth time.

He feels a fierce need to protect her, to keep her safe, but he’s _always_ felt that. He feels it for Arya and Bran too, so he knows this is something different, something more.

That warm sensation in the pit of his stomach when she smiles at him or plays with Ghost or listens intently to their people’s problems… it’s similar to what he felt for Ygritte when she teased him or fired her bow, but again, it’s something _more_. Something stronger.

He’s a King, a man who’s faced battles against the odds, a man brought back from the dead, but _this_ scares him. He’s come to need her far more than he ever expected to need anyone.

He simply doesn’t know how to be in the world without her anymore.

She’s quiet tonight, as they sit side by side in the Great Hall, watching their people celebrate. There’s no particular occasion, but Sansa believes their people shouldn’t need an occasion to drink and enjoy each other.

As his eyes drift over the Great Hall, he trusts her judgement. They look _happy, _his men, normally so gruff and severe, throwing their heads back and laughing.

“You’ve achieved the impossible,” he murmurs to her, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

Sansa hums next to him, her finger trailing absentmindedly along the rim of her cup.

“I have?”

“Aye,” he says, arching a brow as he points to the corner of the room, “Lord Glover is _smiling_.”

Sansa laughs, a small, musical sound, and Jon burns to hear it again.

The only thing souring his mood is Petyr Baelish lingering on her other side. Jon’s a temperate man, kind and self-controlled, but he _hates_ him. He hates the way he looks at her, the way he pulls the strings, and he hates how he can’t just send him away through fear of losing the Vale.

“Would you care to dance?” Sansa asks suddenly, glancing at him as the musicians strike up a gentle tune.

Before he can answer, Baelish gives a little snigger.

“We all know the King does not dance, my lady,” he says with that snake-like grin and Jon hates him all over again.

He stands, his expression set in stone. He extends his hand to Sansa, his eyes on hers as he speaks.

“I do with my wife.”

The smile she sends him is blinding, all crinkled eyes and white teeth, and something pulls in Jon’s chest again. He doesn’t care about Baelish’s reaction, doesn’t even see it. He just takes her hand in his and leads her to the middle of the hall.

People separate as they walk, some dipping into bows, some staring at them with awe and respect. Jon sees only her, and he’s cautious as he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her into him.

“I’m okay,” she murmurs, reading his body as well as he reads her. She lifts her arms to loop around him, playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, the strands not tied back in his bun.

He nods, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her tighter to him.

They sway softly, his hands drifting low on her back.

“I’m sorry I was so awful to you growing up,” she says suddenly, a look of sadness sweeping over her features, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I never saw who you really are. All I’ve been through… Joffrey, Tyrion, Ramsay… _you_ were meant for me and you were here the whole time. Who knew?”

Her lips twitch into a smile as she bows her head and he wonders if she even realises she said _his _name. She said it and didn’t cringe, didn’t flinch, like it’s just a part of her history now.

“I did,” he murmurs softly, causing her eyes to fly to his, “maybe not that we’d be together, but that there was more to you than met the eye. You’re strong, Sansa, and you’re more than your past.”

“Thank you, Jon,” she whispers and he loves the way she says his name. He wants to hear it again and again, whimpered and chanted while he’s buried inside her, and before he can feel guilty about that, she’s murmuring, “I meant what I said last night. I’m ready.”

He smiles, touching his brow to hers – and hopes he is too.

Four cups of wine and two hours later, he’s standing in her chambers, stripped to his breeches as she explores the scars on his chest again.

She’s down to her shift, glowing in the moonlight that streams through the open window. It’s bitterly cold, but he still runs too hot, and he shivers when her fingertips trace across his nipple.

She surprises him by leaning forward, her nose skimming the hollow of his throat. She shifts slightly so her mouth is there and as his hands settle on her hips, she places a soft kiss to his skin.

He sighs against her, his breath caught in his throat, as she plants soft kisses across his collarbone, down his chest, covering every blemish, every scar. When her mouth drifts dangerously low, lingering by his bellybutton, he grabs her, cradling her face and dragging her up to his mouth. He wants to bring her back to safe ground, ease her in gently, and his mouth captures hers. It’s a soft kiss, slow and sweet, and his hand instinctively covers her chest to feel the pace of her heartbeat.

He feels the curve of her mouth against his. She must be smiling, must be grateful for his awareness, his desperation to make sure she feels safe and happy.

“What are you thinking?” he rumbles against her lips when they break away, his thumbs swiping across her cheekbones.

“I should never have sent that girl to your chambers,” she whispers and he thinks it’s an odd reply. He doesn’t want her to think about that, to dwell on the past, when such a promising future stretches out before them, “I mean, it’s going to hurt either way, right?”

_No._

He pulls back slightly, trying to catch her eyes, but her lips and tongue are at his neck. His hands go to her hair, fingers lost in loose auburn waves, and it’s impossible to stop her because she’s biting and licking and he can smell her and feel her, hot on his skin…. but he has to.

“Sansa…” he groans when she sucks a bloom into his neck, stunned by her newfound confidence, but he doesn’t want it to be a confidence based on something false. He thinks it might kill him to do it, but he pulls back and takes her face in his hands.

Her eyes are dark and hooded and heartbreakingly unsure.

“I need you to believe I don’t want anyone else,” he says, “I don’t want you to think I’m fantasising about anyone else when I’m with you, because _trust me_, I’m not. It’s you, Sansa.”

“I know. I won’t think that,” she lies, leaning in for his lips.

It physically hurts him to do it, but he jerks away.

She looks annoyed, a pout to her lips, and he fights back a smile.

“Please. This is important to me,” he tries a different tack and her expression softens, as he knew it would, “I need you to know this isn’t about making heirs, or keeping Daenerys happy. It’s not about your past – you’re no more broken than I am. I know we didn’t choose this, I know you didn’t choose me, but I can’t have you worrying that you’re not enough or that I’ll hurt you or I’ll leave, because that will never happen. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispers and he can tell she means it this time.

“Now tell me you want me,” he orders, but his voice is soft, and his thumbs stroke across her cheekbones again, “because I’ve never heard that before.”

“I’ve wanted you since I saw you waiting for me in the Godswood,” she says and his chest feels too tight, “that’s why I sent the girl in the first place. Wanting you was never the problem. The problem was I couldn’t stop.”

“You wanted to stop?”

She smiles a sad smile, gently touching her fingers to his bottom lip.

“I just didn’t want to hurt anymore,” she whispers.

Her need for him hurt her… so much so that she didn’t even want it anymore… and yet, here she is. Risking it all, placing her trust in him, after everything she’s been through.

She’s chancing it all again, for him.

“And you?” she speaks again, her hands trailing to his chest, “why are you so patient with me?”

There are a million reasons, but only one that matters.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

He watches her breath catch, surprise flashing through her eyes.

He’s always loved her - from a distance as a child, with the warmth of a brother as they grew - but now he realises he’s _in love _with her, devastatingly and completely.

She doesn’t say it back yet, doesn’t say anything at all, because in the next breath, she’s kissing him again. Her mouth slants over his, because everything else can wait.

They have all the time in the world to work things out. He’s not going anywhere.

She tastes like wine from the feast and salty tears and he only just realises she’s crying. Maybe he hadn’t known it then, maybe he had, but this is the kiss he’s been aching for since she flew into his arms that morning at Castle Black. This is _I love you, I trust you _and _I’ll try, _all wrapped up in their mouths.

Her trembling hands fly to his breeches and she fumbles with the laces. As they kiss, he grabs her wrists, slowing her down, and holds them between them. He’s waited a long time for this and _damn it, _he’s going to do it right.

Once her breathing has calmed, he releases his grip on her wrists, allowing her to unlace the ties of his breeches, slower this time. Everything seems to still, to hang in the balance for a moment, as she tugs them and his smallclothes down, exposing him – _all of him – _to her gaze for the first time.

He catches her rub her legs together, her eyes flickering, and he struggles to stay still.

He waits for her to move him, and she does. She takes his hands, walking them backwards, before pushing him to lay on the bed. As he settles on the furs, she comes to stand at the foot of the bed, and he tries not to notice how she trembles.

“I’m going to undress now,” she says clearly, and he wonders if the announcement is more for herself than for him.

He nods, lifting himself to his forearms. He tries to calm himself, but he’s already achingly hard, his cock standing to attention against his stomach. Her gaze darts to his erection but she doesn’t seem afraid as she lifts her shift above her head.

It flutters to the ground and _there she is_, standing naked and beautiful before him for the first time.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs because he can’t _not _say it.

She smiles softly, only slightly hesitant as she crawls onto the bed.

He lays back and his hands reach for her, before she stops him.

“Can you—” she pauses for a moment, eyes drifting shut, and he watches the movement of her graceful throat as she swallows, “be still? For me?”

He can. For her, he can.

She settles in his lap, bare thighs against his for the first time. His fingers twitch with the effort, but he keeps still as she starts to explore him. She clearly needs to be in control, needs to map out his body, needs him to be still while she learns his body _and _hers.

Her hands flit over his chest, down his stomach, finally reaching his cock. He bites his bottom lip to hold back his groan as her fingers gently wrap around it. Almost curiously, she gives it one stroke. At the flutter of his eyes, the tightness in his body, she gains a little confidence, squeezing tighter.

It’s been years since he’s been touched by a woman, years since he had anything other than his own hand wrapped around his cock. He has to reign himself in, has to control himself, or he’ll spill in her hand like a greenboy and that’s not exactly the impression he wants to make.

His hips slightly lift and she lays one hand flat against his abdomen, gently pushing him back down. Her lips twitch into a smile as she moves forward, straddling him again, and he can’t bite back his groan this time when he feels how wet she is.

She leans down and captures his lips again in a fierce kiss.

“You can touch me,” she tells him and he _swears, _he almost sobs with relief.

He flips them over, taking her knees with both hands and spreading her open for him. Her thighs shake as he slips his hand between them, feeling them warm and slippery. He strokes her with two fingers, spreading her wetness, before gently pushing one inside.

She gasps slightly, hips shifting, and he gently dips another inside.

“Okay?” he murmurs as he moves them inside her in shallow thrusts.

She nods, her cheeks blossoming a pretty red.

He moves up her body, his tongue flicking across her nipple, and he revels in her soft moan. He kisses the spot between her breasts, his fingers still plunging inside her as he tugs one of her nipples between his teeth.

Her hands tug at the leather band tying his hair back, tossing it to the side so she can run her fingers through his curls. He groans into her breast as her nails scrape across his scalp, lost in sensation, lost in her. Her fingers rake and pull as he kisses down her stomach, fingers leaving a wet trail on her inner thigh as he pulls them out of her and spreads her legs wider.

He’s surprised at the next words out of her mouth, because he’s never had a woman turn down his face between their thighs.

“Come here,” she pants, reaching down for him.

“Alright?” he checks again as he settles between her thighs, his weeping cock dragging against her wetness.

She nods but her next words seem to lodge in her throat.

“What is it?” he asks and kisses her throat.

“Can I—” she takes a breath, “Can I ride you?”

He buries his face in her neck and bites a groan into her hair and _gods, _he thinks those words will haunt him for the rest of his life. He kisses her again before rolling onto his back, hands gripping her hips as she positions herself.

She sinks down onto him with a moan, her hands anchoring themselves on his chest. He lets out a groan of his own as her fingers carve moon shaped crescents into his skin, her hips beginning to move faster. 

She whispers his name, choked and happy, and it’s even better than he imagined it would be. She lowers herself and his lips find her throat while they move together and he’s practically shaking, because she’s so warm and so good and so his.

“Jon…” she whimpers again, hot against his mouth, “I love you.”

An ache erupts in his chest, spreading outwards until he can barely breathe, because that’s all he’s ever wanted. To be loved, to be wanted, to find his place in the world and to be _enough._

“I love you,” he says and his lips skim across her cheek to breathe in her ear, “my Queen.”

Her thighs start to tremble around him and he grabs onto her ass hard, with both hands.

“Come on,” he encourages, “let go for me.”

His fingers play with the bundle of nerves between her thighs and whether it’s that or the sensation of him filling her or his words, her body goes rigid and she breaks apart with a broken moan. The feel of her milking his cock brings about his own orgasm and he peaks harder than he ever has before, white hot pleasure blasting through him as he finally fills her with his seed.

She shakes on top of him, collapsing onto his chest, panting into his neck. It’s silent for a moment, the gravity of what they’ve accomplished hanging in the air between them, before she lets out a deliriously happy laugh into his neck.

Her body trembles with it, his hands drifting along her spine, and his chest pulls at the sound.

She lifts herself up, sending him a blinding smile and kissing him fiercely.

“_That’s _what I’ve been missing?” she breathes incredulously, her body trembling again with the force of her gentle laughter.

His lips twitch into a smile of his own, his hands cradling her face and dragging her mouth to his again.

“Aye, that’s the way it should always be.”

“When can we do it again?” she asks, wide eyed and pupils blown.

He laughs like a man finally brought back from the dead.

“Let me recover,” he rumbles, “it’s worth the wait.”

He’s not just talking about tonight. 


End file.
